


Perdition

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belly Kink, Childbirth, Comfort Sex, Hell Trauma, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg, Nightmares, Pain, Porn, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Castiel, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I raised you from Perdition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perdition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morganoconner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/gifts).



> **_A/N:_** This fic was written for **morganoconner** a couple of months ago just because she’s awesomesauce like that but am only just getting around to posting it now that she’s read it and found it worthy. Alas, this fic is unbeta’d even though I’ve gone through it numerous times and think I caught everything. Also, this one is not in my usual style and it’s definitely not something I 'ship (I don't even like Cas all that much)... so needless to say it's not a trope (or at least the slash aspects...) I see myself revisiting but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.
> 
> Occurs at some indeterminate point in early / mid Season Five.
> 
>  ** _Disclaimer:_** Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that Yada Yada.
> 
>  ** _Extra Warnings:_** implied past non-con/rape, mpreg, graphic birth/labor.

Later, Dean wouldn’t remember what had happened. Not really. He would remember the dark alleyway, a guy bigger than Sam cornering him, a bright flare of pain, darkness crashing down around him. And nothing.

**::: ::: :::**

When he comes to, he’s lying in a motel bed. The sheets are clean and soft for once and they smell of Ivory soap. The mattress is unusually comfortable — it’s not quite a pillow-top, which won’t completely fuck with his back and joints, but neither it is rock hard with springs that jab in all the wrong places. It is, to quote Goldilocks, _Just right_. Fingertips brush against his forehead, the pads too rough and calloused to be his mother’s and it leaves him feeling weirdly, irrationally, disappointed. There’s a gentle tug and he slides under, the sleep restful and healing.

**::: ::: :::**

He’s sweating and shivering and naked and there is Alastair, all hot, rotten breath, his blade carving down the length of his slightly distended abdomen, parting him from just beneath his sternum to his pelvis. His intestines, gray and slimy, spill out of him. He stares down at the wreckage, sees something small and half-formed lying at his feet. It looks like a shriveled-up sea monkey. For a long beat he feels nothing and knows the pain is coming. Just as he opens his mouth to scream out of terror and anticipation of the pain, there’s a flash of bright, white light and he’s pulled free.

**::: ::: :::**

He jerks upright with a sharp cry, panting and shuddering, chest heaving as he struggles to pull air into desperate, starved lungs, his amulet bouncing against his pectoral. He raises his hand and curls it around the brass, feeling the sharp points dig into his flesh. It grounds him and he senses someone is sitting beside him, but doesn’t feel as though he’s in danger. Besides, he’s a bit preoccupied with the whole trying-to-breathe-and-not-pass-out thing.

A hand closes around his left shoulder, lining up with the keloid handprint scar there, a perfect match, and he stills, instantly relaxing. He blinks heavily and rotates his head. “C-cas?” He croaks out. “W-what…?”

Cas doesn’t let go. “You are in distress. Get some rest. You will need it.” Blue eyes probe him and not for the first time, Dean feels stripped down before the angel.

He drops his gaze, sliding back down on the bed. “But…” his voice comes out raw and vulnerable-sounding and he hates the way it betrays him.

“You dream of Hell.” Cas’ voice is devoid of emotion and accusation. His words are simply _fact_ and, after a moment hesitation, Dean nods in confirmation, still not making eye contact. “I am sorry. I did not intend for you to suffer.” Dean opens his mouth to deny the angel’s words, to assuage the guilt he can see there, but Cas presses on before Dean can speak. “I shall stay. You will not dream today. I will watch over you.”

Dean swallows thickly, blinks back sharp, stinging tears.

“Sleep.”

**::: ::: :::**

When Dean awakes the third time, it is much later and he feels more rested than he had in a long time. Since _Before Hell_ if he is honest. Cas is still sitting on the bed beside him, his legs stretched out against his side, staring straight ahead.

“Don’t you ever sleep?” Dean grouses, dragging himself up to lean partly against the headboard. The small movement leaves him oddly drained. “It’s freaky.”

“My kind does not need the replenishing you do. I believe you need to… relieve… yourself and then seek nourishment. After all it’s been nearly forty hours since I found you,” Cas muses detachedly. “You are still weak after your ordeal. Please allow me to assist.” The angel stands and offers Dean his hand.

Dean ignores it and pushes the sheets aside, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress, planting his feet on the floor. He gasps, suddenly lightheaded and dizzy. Swallowing thickly, he shifts his breathing into something slower and more measured, suppressing the rising nausea. He closes his eyes, gulps, and palms his abdomen.

His eyes fly open and he immediately glances down. A cry gets tangled somewhere between his throat and his mouth and comes out in a wheezy, soundless squeak. His belly is distended, soft and round. He blinks, stares, and molds his hand against the slightly convexing curve. It takes up his whole abdomen, filling the cavity between his ribs and pelvis. He steals his other hand to the swelling and holds his stomach between both hands. It’s solid and firm, like a basketball is lodged just beneath his skin.

“Wha’ppened?” He rasps out faintly.

Cas’ face closes off into an unreadable scowl. “What happened does not matter. It’s been taken care of.” He closes his hand around Dean’s bicep and eases Dean to his feet. The weight within him doesn’t drop or displace, sitting low within his abdomen. As they move towards the bathroom, Dean bites off a hard whimper as it presses against his bladder. He’s grateful when Cas lowers him onto the toilet seat, turns on the shower taps, and leaves him to his privacy.

**::: ::: :::**

When Dean staggers out of the bathroom, hair dripping, a bile-colored towel slung low around his hips, belly round and bulging, Cas is sitting at the rough wooden table, looking all the world as an accountant waiting to deliver bad news. Dean pauses, one hand pressed against the wall for support, the other slung beneath his belly to counteract the pull on his center of gravity, his breath coming quick and hard as though he’s been exerting himself.

Cas rises from his seat and goes to Dean, cupping his hand around Dean’s elbow. Dean hesitates and leans into the angel, allowing himself to be supported to the bed. Once he’s seated, Cas brings him the duffel and Dean digs around in it, pulling out a t-shirt and boxer shorts. He tugs them on, concealing his nakedness, and the shirt is already too tight over his stomach, the dark fabric straining. He glances up at Cas standing awkwardly by his side.

“If you’re going to stay here, then you might as well get comfortable because, frankly, wearing that jacket indoors is just weird as fuck.”

“But…”

“No buts. If you’re going to stay and help me with—” Dean gestures at his bloated abdomen. “You’re gonna change.”

He roots around in the duffle again until he comes up with a black t-shirt and a pair of Sam’s sweatpants he’d found after they’d split.

Cas changes slowly and deliberately, his movements clumsy and uncertain. Finally, he maneuvers his way out of the suit and dress shirt and the new clothes.

Dean’s stomach clenches as he sees the _Hell Hazers_ logo from when he’d worked at that movie set that case two — _forty-two_ — years ago emblazoned across the front. What’d seemed like a plain black t-shirt…

“Is something wrong? You are upset,” Cas states simply. He glances down and seems to understand something implicitly because he takes off the shirt, turns it inside out, and pulls it back on. The tag sticks out in the back and Dean can still see the screenprinting through the fabric but it’s better.

“Thanks,” he croaks out.

**::: ::: :::**

Soon, his stomach aches and Dean can see and feel it expanding, still. He tugs up his shirt, exposing his mound. He is huge, now, and looks like that chick that had eight babies and it scares him. He digs his fingers into his flesh, massaging it, and the pressure doesn’t ease.

Cas is there, holding a white bottle from his kit. He recognizes the red label as Tylenol and shakes his head.

“Not bad enough,” he tells Cas. “It’s got nothing on Hell. I can handle it. Put it away.”

Cas studies him sadly. “You are no longer in Hell. You shouldn’t have to suffer needlessly.” He peers at the label, scrutinizing the tiny instructions. After a beat, he twists open the cap and tips two pills into his hand. He waits until Dean’s leaning partly against the headboard before offering the white tablets along with the glass of water from the bedside table.

Dean takes and swallows them and, with Cas’ help, lies back down, exhausted and feeling vaguely sick. He places his hand on his belly, molding it against the curve, and waits for the painkillers to kick in.

**::: ::: :::**

The pressure builds as the day — _or night_ , he’s no longer sure which is which — goes on and Dean squirms uncomfortably on the bed, feeling his belly slowly grow and expand. None of the painkillers in his kit touch the pain anymore and he’s long since discarded his clothes and the sheets are sticky and damp against his bare flesh. He winces, tugging up his knees a little at the pull of too-tight skin and the pumping sensation deep within him, and rolls onto his back, his abdomen a huge and bulbous wall. He presses sweat-slick palms to the taut roundness. He’s _pregnant_.

There’s a movement inside him and a sharp pain that makes him grimace.

Cas goes to him, looking young and disheveled in Sam’s sweatpants and his old t-shirt, and sits on the edge of the bed, his hip touching Dean’s arm.

He holds out his hand tentatively. “Let me.” The words are caught somewhere between statement and question.

Dean nods, tugs the sheet lower, sliding it off his belly but still maintaining his privacy. He watches as Cas lowers his hand to the mound of flesh and when he settles his palm against the curve, be begins rubbing in gentle concentric circles.

“Sleep,” he tells Dean. “I shall keep watch.”

**::: ::: :::**

The movements within him seem to settle and Dean rocks his hips slightly, trying to displace the heaviness. It is too still, the quiet before the storm, and Dean gulps nervously.

“Cas?” he rasps softly and the angel is suddenly there, looking as though he just rolled out of bed. “Can you….” Dean feels himself flush with embarrassment.

Cas settles his hand on the obscene mound. He cocks his head for a moment, as though he listening. “It is nearly time.”

Dean makes an unhappy sound somewhere in the back of his throat as Cas withdraws, his own hand stealing to palm at his gravid stomach. It’s too big, the skin stretched and aching, belly button popped out and sensitive. He explores the sore nub with tentative fingertips and jerks them back with a sharp gasp when a thrill runs through him.

When the surge subsides, he’s left feeling weighed down again, beached. There’s a restlessness he can’t quite pinpoint and he wants — _needs_ — to move, and has the overriding intuition that there is something imperative he’s forgetting. He draws up his knees, planting the flat of his feet on the mattress. It helps a little, but it’s not enough. He grunts in dissatisfaction. He wants to get off the bed but there’s no way his legs can support the hugeness dragging on his center of balance. Cas must’ve heard him because he’s there again, sitting on the edge of the mattress in his inside-out shirt and sweatpants looking like a college kid on a bender.

“Can I help? Perhaps I could…” He trails off uncertainly as Dean struggles up onto trembling arms.

His arms give out and he falls back onto the mattress. “Get me over. Please. I need…”

Cas seems to make sense of the disjointed, incoherent words and supports the huge mound as Dean rolls onto his left side. Once Dean is situated, he hovers anxiously, clearly uneasy.

“Thanks,” Dean tells him. “You can sit. I’m good.”

Cas hesitates and then goes back to the other bed.

**::: ::: :::**

They spend the day watching _Baywatch_ reruns and Dean drifts asleep, somehow sensing he should rest while he can.

**::: ::: :::**

Later, there’s a sharp, clenching pain that jerks him from his restless doze with a loud cry. The cramp doesn’t let up, intensifying until it climaxes, and then slowly releasing him from the savage agony. He’s left shuddering and gasping, the sheets beneath him drenched. There’s another contraction and he whites out.

Cas is there, carefully, gently, helping him to sit and then stand.

The pressure drops low into his pelvis and he yowls.

Then he’s squatting, Cas’ shoulder digging into his forehead, his arms draped laxly around the angel’s neck. He fades out, disconnecting himself from the pain, hearing himself scream as — he’s pretty sure — he pushes and strains, the contractions seizing his abdominal muscles in steady waves.

Later still — could be minutes, could be hours; he has no clue about the progression of time, only that there is pain and he’s half-floating somewhere else where it isn’t so bad, almost watching himself — he feels something give. And he finally passes out.

**::: ::: :::**

When he comes back around, he’s lying on his back and the sheets are cool and dry, securely tucked around him. He’s sore down below, his asshole hot and throbbing. He can feel it’s stretched out, loose. He shifts carefully, not wanting to exacerbate the pain, and doesn’t quite stifle the whimper that escapes him.

Cas is there and a strong forearm gently lifts him and he’s cradled against a muscular chest. It’s more solid than he expected, but at the same time, it’s comforting. A bottle of orange Gatorade is pressed to his lips and he gulps down the salty-sweet beverage, his thirst awakening. He drains the bottle and he’s lowered back onto the pillows. Glancing down, he sees the sheet has slipped, revealing his abdomen. It’s flat once again, the skin loose and flaccid. He palms it and feels empty.

“What…” He doesn’t dare complete his question, both wanting and not wanting to know all at once, unsure what he’s seeking.

“I’m sorry,” Cas tells him, his blue eyes sad, compassionate. “I had to destroy it. It was not…” he pauses, takes a breath, “natural.”

Dean nods, dropping his gaze. Somehow he’d known from the start. He feels bereft, as though he’s lost a part of himself.

He raises his chin, meeting Cas’ gaze and suddenly surges forward, his hand wrapping around the back of Cas’ head as his lips smash against the angel’s. The kiss is hard and desperate and full of need and desire. He feels Cas shudder and he deepens it, lowering his free hand to Cas’ crotch.

“Fill me,” he growls softly, tugging his face back a fraction, his voice raw and needy. “Please.”

Cas wraps his hands around Dean’s biceps, one hand aligning with the scar — _I raised you from perdition_ — and kisses back, his teeth knocking against Dean’s, as he lowers them both to the bed and takes him.


End file.
